Considered unfit for marriage, so her father married her to the strongest slave, Virginia, 1856...-phuongthao
They said that I would get married. Twelve men, four years old, looked at the wheelchair and left.
My name is Eililapar Wetmore, and this is the story of how I went from being rejected by society to discovering a passionate love that changed the course of history.
Virginia, 1856. I was twenty-two years old and considered myself disabled.
I lost the ability to move my legs since I was eight years old, due to an accident falling from a horse which resulted in a fracture of my spine, and this forced me to use this wheelchair made of mahogany wood that my father asked for.
But what nobody understood was that the wheelchair wasn't what made me "unfit for marriage", but what it represented. A burden.
A woman who can't be with her husband at the parties, a woman who is supposed to be able to have children, who can't manage the home, and who can't fulfill any of the obligations expected of a wife from the south.
Twelve marriage proposals arranged by my father ended in the same number of rejections, and each one of them was harder than the last.
“You can’t walk down the hall.” “My children need a mother to run after them.” “What good is it if you can’t have children?” This last rumor, completely false, spread like wildfire in the Virginia community.
The doctors speculated about my fertility if they even examined me. Suddenly, I was no longer just a person with a disability, but I became a defective person in every sense, which was important for America in 1856.
When William Foster, a fat, drunken, fifteen-year-old man, rejected me even though my father offered him a third of our annual inheritance, I understood the truth: I will die alone.
But my father had other plans. Radical, shocking plans, completely outside all social norms, to the point that when he told them to me, I thought I had misinterpreted him. He said, “You will marry Josiah, the blacksmith.” You will be his wife.
I looked at my father, the choir—Richard Whittemore, owner of 5,000 acres and 200 slaves—sure that he had lost his mind.
Let me tell you about Josiah first. I called him “the monster.” He was eight feet tall and weighed 300 pounds of hard muscle, sculpted by years of hard work in the blacksmith shop.
His hands could bend iron bars, and his face inspired terror in the hearts of all who entered the room. People feared him, both slaves and free men.
The white visitors of our farmhouse stared at him intently and whispered: “Have you seen the size of this man?” And Timor has a monster in his forge.”
But here is what nobody knew, what I was about to discover: Josiah was the kindest man I had ever known in my life.
My father called me to his office in March 1856, a month after Foster's rejection, and a month after I had lost all hope of being left alone.
She told me clearly: “A white man won’t marry you off.” This is the truth. But you need protection.
When I die, this inheritance will pass to your cousin Robert.
He will sell you everything, give you a ridiculously small amount, and leave you dependent on distant relatives who don't love you. I said, knowing that this was impossible: "Then leave me the inheritance."
“Virginia law does not allow it.” Women cannot inherit independently, especially…” She pointed to the wheelchair and could not finish the sentence.
“So, what do you propose?” “Josiah is the strongest man in this heresy.” He is intelligent; yes, I know he reads the secrets, so don’t be surprised. He is in good health, he is capable, and from all I have heard of him, he has a good heart despite his large size.
He will not abandon you because he is legally obligated to stay. He will protect you, meet your needs, and take care of you.
The logic was terrifying and inflexible. I asked him, “Have you asked?” He replied, “Not yet.” I wanted to tell you first. “What if you reject me?”
My father's face seemed to have aged ten years at that moment. "I'm still trying to find a white husband for you, and we both know I'll fail."
And you will spend your life, after my death, abandoned, dependent on the alms of the parents who see you as a burden. I was right.
I hated that he was right. “Can I see him?” Talk to him really before making this decision and our name? “Of course.” Tomorrow.
I brought Josía home the next morning. I was sitting by the living room window when I heard heavy footsteps in the hallway
The door opened and my father entered, then Josiah had to duck - literally - to pass under the door frame.
My God, how enormous he was! Six feet of muscle and bones, he barely touched the door frame with his shoulders, and his hands bore burn marks from a forge that seemed capable of breaking stone.
His face was wrinkled, his beard was thick, and his eyes scanned the room without noticing me.
He stood with his head slightly bowed and his hands clasped, in the posture of a slave in the house of a white man. The nickname “beast” was well-deserved; he looked capable of bringing the house down with his bare hands.
Then my father spoke: “Josiah, this is my daughter, Elilapar.” He looked me in the eyes for a moment, then looked back at the ground.
“Yes, sir.” Her voice was surprisingly soft, deep but calm, almost delicate. “Elilamar, I have explained the situation to Josiah.” He understands.
He will be responsible for your care.” My voice returned, although trembling.
“Josiah, do you understand what my father is proposing?” He looked at me quickly again. “Yes, miss.” I will be your husband. I will protect you, I will help you.
“And you accepted this?” He seemed confused, as if the concept of consent was strange to him. The choir added: “I had to, miss.” “But do you really want it?” The question made him shudder.
His eyes were compared to mine, dark brown, and I was surprised to see how impotent his face was. “I…I don't know what I want, miss.” أنا عبدة. ما أريده عادةً لا يهم. The truth is hard and fair.
My father closed the door and said, “Perhaps it would be best if we spoke alone. I will be in my office.” Then he left and closed the door, leaving me alone with the enormous seven-foot slave who was supposed to be my husband. We didn't speak for hours.
Finally I asked him, pointing to the chair in front of me: “Would you like to sit down?”
Josia looked at the delicate piece of furniture with the embroidered cushions, then at her enormous body. “I don’t think this chair will support me, miss.”
“So, the sofa.” He sat carefully on the edge. Even sitting down, he was much taller than me.
His hands were resting on his knees, each finger was a small hardened and marked lump.
“Are you afraid of me, miss?” “Should I be?” “No, miss.” I won’t hurt you, I swear. “I’ll call you a monster.” I trembled. “Yes, miss.” Because of my size, and because I look scary.
I've never hurt anyone, not intentionally. "But you can, if you want." "I can," she looked at me again, "but I won't." Not for you. Not for someone who doesn't deserve it.
Something in his eyes – sadness, resignation, sadness that corresponded to his appearance – convinced me. “Josía, I want to be honest with you.” I don't want this any more than you probably want it. My father is desperate. I am not suitable for marriage. يعتقد أنك الحل الوحيد.
But if we're going to do this, I need to know: are you dangerous? "No, miss." "Are you cruel?" "No, miss." "Are you going to hurt me?"
“Absolutely, miss.” I swear on everything I hold dear. The seriousness was undeniable; I believed what she said. Then I have another question.
“Can you read?” The question made him tremble. Fear crossed his face; reading was forbidden for slaves in Virginia. But after a long moment, he said calmly, “Yes, miss.” “I taught myself. I know it’s not allowed, but… I couldn’t help it.”
The books are doors to places I will go.
“What are you reading?” “Anything I can find.” Old newspapers, and sometimes borrowed books. I read slowly, I don’t learn well, but I read. “Have you read Shakespeare?”
Her eyes opened. "Yes, miss. There is an old copy in the library that nobody touches."
I read her at night, when everyone is asleep. "What are her plays?" "Hamlet, Romeo and Juliet, The Tempest." His voice became more animated despite himself.
"The Tempest is my favorite." Prospero controls the island with magic, Ariel embraces freedom, Caliba is treated like a monster but perhaps he is more human than any other person. He stopped suddenly. "Excuse me, miss."
"I talk a lot." "No." I smiled, a sincere smile for the first time in this strange conversation. "Keep talking. Tell me about Caliba."
And something exceptional happened. Josiah, the enormous slave known as the Beast, began to discuss Shakespeare with an intelligence that would have impressed university professors.
He said: “Caliba is called the beast, but Shakespeare shows that he was enslaved, that his island was stolen from him, and that he was deprived of the sight of his mother.”
The monster is called Prospero, but Prospero came to the island and claimed ownership of everything, including Caliba himself.
So, who is the real monster? “You are looking at Caliba with eyes of compassion.” “I see Caliba as a human being.”
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He was treated in a way that is not dignified for a human being, but he is still a human being. Silence remained for a moment. “As…”
"Like slaves." "Yes," I finally said.
